A Better, Happier You
by Thayne M
Summary: After hearing first-hand what Bones endured as a foster child, and how it affected her, Booth begins to reevaluate her personality, and his place in her world. Drama ensues. B/B.
1. A Better, Happier You

**Title: **_A Better, Happier You_  
**Summary:**_ After hearing first-hand what Bones endured as a foster child, and how it affected her, Booth begins to reevaluate her personality, and his place in her world._  
**Tag:** _S01E05, "A Boy in a Bush" (post-Bones interrogation)_  
**Inspiration:** _"Giant," by Matthew Good Band_  
**Special Note:** _My first Bones fic, so be gentle!_  
**Disclaimer:** _I have 206 bones in my body, but none of them are as pretty as Emily Deschanel._

"Just listen..." Booth leaned in closer to the wide window, watching his partner speak in a soft and knowing tone that he'd never heard from her before. It was gentle. It was _human_. "They give you a garbage bag to carry all of your stuff, like they're telling you everything you own is garbage," a sliver of bitterness was twined around her words, and--for some reason--Booth felt his chest tightening, "And then you have to go to a new school in clothes that smell like garbage bags." The little boy perched so helplessly next to Brennan replied in a small, shaking voice, and Booth felt his heart sink at the fear there. And then his partner was speaking again, "They bounce you around from place to place, and its never home." _My god, Bones_, the special agent thought, shaking his head, _I never knew_.

The conversation before him went on for a while longer, each sentence breaking his heart a little more as he thought of his own childhood, and all the things he'd had that these two never would. When Brennan made the promise to Sean that he would be able to continue living with his brother, the agent was taken off-guard. Not necessarily by the weight of her vow, but more the fact that she'd entrusted it to him; she'd insisted he could do it. She had faith in him. Her. Temperance Brennan, the woman who didn't trust anything but her bones and her science, actually had faith. He shook it off and informed Johnson that they would have to make it happen, then came back to the conversation in time to hear, "Charlie was just like you: Someone that Margaret _chose_ to love." Her voice cracked, only a fraction, and Booth was overwhelmed by the underlying meaning there--she hadn't been chosen.

She got the name, and he got his bad guy. Edward Nelson, local exterminator and pedophile--the scum on the ankles of the human race. Seeing Brennan's face as he pushed the criminal into the back of the car, so broken and forlorn, Booth felt a new level of disgust toward people like Nelson; people that took everything away from people that didn't have a lot to begin with. But then, when he and Johnson took Margaret to Sean and David, he felt a new level of relief when Brennan's face lit up, so blatantly happy at the reunion of the boys and their foster mother. She wasn't guarded. She wasn't cold. This was the other side of his partner; the side that felt everything, without caring who could see. The real side.

And when he was standing a few feet from her that night, yet another new side of her glimmering from a strapless maroon dress, he was suddenly and inexplicably breathless. His mind went numb and his heart seemed to drop into the boiling acids of his stomach (and when _that_ visual came to him, he decided he'd been spending way too much time with the squints), and he was suddenly stumbling for his words. "You like nice." Nice? That was an insult in comparison to what he really meant. "Better than nice," he corrected, "You look, uh...very..." He gestured around for a moment, as if trying to pull the right words from the air around him, as though such a thing was truly possible.

She showed him mercy, smiling in an understanding way, "Thanks."

He laughed in a quiet, distracted way, mulling over a point that had been on his mind since the interview. "Bones." He tucked his bottom lip into his mouth and ran his tongue over it once, choosing his words, "How did you know I was going to keep your promise?"

"What promise?"

"To get Sean and David back with Margaret Sanders."

She shrugged, like it was nothing, "Maybe I was lying to catch the bad guy. I learned that trick from you," she nodded surely to herself, like stating a fact, "The end justifies the means."

_That's it_? "Hm." He turned to leave, mentally berating himself for believing she had somehow changed. Same old Bones. Faithless. Untrusting. Hiding herself from the rest of the world because she was too strong, too cold, too afraid.

"Booth." He stopped and turned quickly, silently begging her to tell him he was wrong. And she did. "I knew you would back me up. I knew you wouldn't make me a liar." The way she said it, so straightforward and sure, like talking about a skeleton or a disease, struck a cord in Booth. It _was_ there; he hadn't just imagined it. She trusted him enough to make a promise that meant so much--not just to a little boy, but to her as well--knowing that he would take care of it.

They parted soon-after, her to her fancy party, and him to Wong Foo's for a couple of beers and whatever Sid felt like serving him. Now, Booth sat at the counter of the restaraunt, sipping at a beer already half gone and twirling some strange new noodle concoction around his chopsticks. Sid called it "yakisoba," which started an at least mildly entertaining conversation about Japanese food being served at a Chinese restaraunt, but then the owner was called away to sort out some problem with a flaying knife and a convection oven and Booth was left alone with the thoughts he was so desperately (and, thus far, _hopelessly_) attempting to press from his mind.

Bold. Beautiful. Brilliant. Three Bs. Brennan. He hung his head a little and laughed bitterly at a bit of Stargate: Atlantis knowledge that had worked its way into his thoughts. _Really gotta stop hanging around the squints_, he told himself before his mind refocused. This whole time, he'd thought he was the only one who felt the full emotional effects of the job, but she did too. In the last few days, he'd seen her infuriated, saddened to the point where she was almost crying, vulnerable, disdainful, empathetic, hurt, relieved, and several more different shades of humane he'd never known of her. And he'd seen her smile. A true, genuine smile for a family that was not her own, and for him, because she thought he'd brought them all back together. But it was her. It was always her. She always put up the front, acting so strong and untouched by anything that was going on around her. She made the job look easy, and there were many times when Booth had caught himself envying that strength in her. But she'd slipped. She'd shown vulnerability. And he found himself admiring that even more.

He continued on with his thoughts, finally surrendering to them, no longer attempting to push them from his thoughts. Before he knew it, he was on his third beer. He didn't remember finishing his first, or anything about the second, but the third was clasped tightly between his two large hands now, and he was taking it down like it was the purest water and he was dying of thirst. That dress. God, that dress. The way it had hugged her so perfectly, accentuating the perfect curves he'd always suspected she had. He often caught himself staring at her as she worked over a particularly difficult case, her face twisted in deep conversation, her hair messy, clothes wrinkled, eyes circled darkly from a lack of sleep. He found her beautiful then, too, because she was doing something she loved--and not for herself, but for someone she'd never even met, because she just cared that much. And when she was getting ready to go out somewhere with Angela (though it was a somewhat rare occurance), in simple skirts and blouses, hair pulled back in a casual but appropriate way, and he happened to bump into her before she left, he found himself stammering. He never told her how good she looked, but he always wanted to. But tonight... Tonight was something different. Maybe it was because of all the emotional aspects of her still fresh in his mind, but seeing her in that dark dress, shoulders exposed and hair pulled away from her face, showing off a certain amount of skin, just enough to be modest but intriguing. Words would barely come to him. His only thoughts were of her body and her mind and her emotions, and how deeply he desired to explore all of these things further than a colleague should be allowed. For the first time, he'd actually had to _fight_ the longing to reach out and draw her into his arms and run his hands over those delicate curves and beautiful features. The next time he saw her, could he quell these urges? He didn't know, and it was scaring him.

Beer number four. This one he saw plainly, watching it replace the third, the top popping off under his fingers and he immediately began downing it, desperate to numb himself to his own feelings. That's when he heard it, "If you keep on like that, you're going to end up vomitting all over Sid's counter." He swiveled around in his chair to face the voice, which he instantly recognized as Brennan's, but did not want to believe so. He knew he couldn't handle being in close proximity to her right now, but god, he wanted to be. So when he found her staring back at him, still wearing that dress but now with her coat over her shoulders, he didn't know how to react. Did he run, or did he stay? In the end, he decided to pitch forward from the turn in his seat, barely having time to brace himself against the chair next to him before gracelessly righting himself again. Brennan laughed lightly and moved to sit next to him, crossing her legs, causing her dress to ride up ever-so-slightly and reveal a better view of her pale, toned legs. Booth gulped.

"Its only my fourth beer," he mumbled weakly, having to force his eyes away from her.

She rolled her eyes and replied sarcastically, "Well, as long as its only the _fourth_." He could feel her eyes on him, and when he finally looked up, she smiled at him gently, "You all right, Booth?"

He nodded. It felt like his head was a basketball on a pen-spring, just bobbing up and down, but it actually didn't move much at all. Instead of answering verbally, he replaced her question with his own, "What're you doing here?"

Brennan held a hand up to Sid, who nodded her way and went about fixing another drink. Then she told Booth, "About half an hour in, people started throwing up and the banquet was officially brought to a close."

"Food poisoning?" Even in his own ears, the words sounded a little slurred and a lot weak.

She didn't seem to notice. She simply nodded, "In the shrimp. Luckily," she took the drink Sid handed her with a smile of thanks before continuing, "I don't eat shrimp. Long story short: I figured you might want some company and try not to take any big cases for about a week because the rest of the team will be too busy throwing up."

Booth blinked at her, "You thought I might want some company?"

"Yes."

"How did you even know where I was?" She raised an eyebrow at him, as if to say, _Where else_? and he rephrased, "I mean, why did you think I came here, instead of going home for dinner?"

Brennan stirred her green-coloured drink with a straw and shrugged thoughtfully, "You mentioned today that Tessa was in Pennsylvania on business for the week-end, and I know _you _don't do the cooking." She brought the straw up to her mouth and ran her tongue over it, scraping off all of the liquid before dropping it onto the table and bring her drink up to her mouth. Booth couldn't help but be captivated by the way her two soft lips gathered around the brim of the glass, parting only a little to allow the alcohol in. He felt a shiver race through him when she put the drink down and her tongue brushed over her mouth to sop up whatever sweetness had lingered there. He had to surpress a groan when she smirked in approval of the drink and then leaned over to take his hand in hers. "Really, are you okay?"

"Do I not look okay?" He was barely conscious of the words leaving his mouth, his entire body driven solely on being closer to hers. He had to fight it. Had to fight it. Had to fight it. This was his colleague, his partner, his friend at best. It wouldn't be right.

She gave him a crooked stare, as if examining him like one of her subjects, "No. You seem distracted and tired and upset about something, and even a little bit worried. Booth," her voice suddenly became anxious, "Is something really wrong? Did someone try to kill you? Did someone put a bit out on your hair?"

"Hit out on my head," he corrected quietly.

"This is not the time to be correcting my pop culture ignorace," her voice was almost shrill now, "Why won't you tell me what's going on? Booth! _Are you okay_?" Before he could stop himself, he'd leaned in. Everything in his mind was telling him to pull back--pull back before it was too late. But everything in his body was driving him forward. He laced his fingers through the hand that still held his, and his other hand cupped the back of her head as he pulled Brennan closer, until there was no space between them. His lips found hers in such a hard, desperate, passionate way that he could feel her gasp against his mouth. Then, as quickly as he'd pulled her into this, she began to respond, kissing back with all she had. She'd just begun to bring her hands up to hold his jaw when he pulled away, breathing hard and looking so regretful that it stung her.

"No," he muttered, barely able to keep himself from hyperventilating. He took a few bills from his pocket and dropped them onto the bar, then gathered his jacket, "I'm not okay." He spared one last glance to her stunned, confused, almost pained expression before walking away, leaving her there to wonder what had just happened; what she might have done wrong.

**A/N:**

**I know! How bad am I for ending it like that? I am such a mean person! But, ya know, if you're really, **_**really**_** nice in your reviews, and say "please," you might be able to convince me to write a follow-up. But only if you ask!**

**Other than that, what did you think? Was it pretty good, for my first Bones fic? Or did it suck? I need to know these things!**


	2. We Carry On Like Its Easy

**Title: **A Better, Happier You  
**Chapter Title:** We Carry On Like Its Easy  
**Summary:** After hearing first-hand what Bones endured as a foster child, and how it affected her, Booth begins to reevaluate her personality, and his place in her world.  
**Chapter Summary:** Brennan...is pissed.  
**Tag:** S01E05, "A Boy In A Bush" (post-Bones interrogation)  
**Inspiration:** "Giant," by Matthew Good Band  
**Special Note: **Because so many nice boys and girls asked for a follow-up chapter! Also, it was observed that I wrote Brennan a little OOC. First of all, thankyou. Whenever I write OOC, I really want to know, because--to me--that's unacceptable. This isn't sarcasm; I am genuinely grateful that at least one person would point it out. However, in this singular circumstance, I actually intended for her to sound not-herself, because the whole thing was about all the ways Booth was seeing change in her. But really, thanks; if I do it in any other Bones fic, smack me!  
**Disclaimer:** -sigh- I don't own Bones. Nor do I have Emily Deschanel's kickass fashion sense, beauty, gorgeous voice, or hot sister. My life sucks.

--

Brennan stayed still for what felt like hours. He'd kissed her. Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, former Army Ranger sniper, murderer of dozens and saviour of countless hundreds, had _kissed_ her. Well, first he'd made her believe that he was marked for death, but _then_ he'd kissed her; rough and urgent, plundering her lips and ripping away any speech she had before walking out on her. Sometimes, she just got so _tired_ of that man walking away. Then again--though she'd never admit it to herself, let alone out loud--she didn't mind the view.

"Another?" The woman jumped when Sid's voice suddenly sounded in front of her. She hadn't even seen him coming, and she never let herself get taken off-guard; what had Booth done to her? And now, looking up at Sid to see him staring back with a half-amused, half-concerned expression, she knew that everything that just happened was real, and it started hurting. Her head felt numb, and the restaraunt owner's words suddenly made no sense to her, so she just stared up at him blankly. As if taking the hint, he gestured to her drink which, while not empty, had certainly become room-temperature and stale. "I said, d'you want another one?" She mulled over it for a long moment, the simplest of questions--yes or no--was suddenly a deep philosophical inquiry. Finally, Sid's face softened a little and he leaned forward, voice quiet, "Don't sweat it, Bone-lady; Booth ain't the kinda guy to just leave somethin' like this alone."

Brennan nodded like she understood, but her words--low, shaky, and full of emotions she didn't even know she had--contradicted her, "Looks pretty 'alone' from where I'm sitting." The owner gave her a sympathetic face and took her glass, soon returning it with a fresh drink and a guarantee of twenty-percent more alcohol. She thanked him quietly and began downing the drink, and then another, and another until the rest of her body was as numb as her mind. And then a sliver of rationality caught up with her; how was she going to get home? Even before standing, she knew she could barely walk straight. Calling Jack or Angela was out of the question because they'd grill her for information, and Zack couldn't even drive. _Oh_, she shook her head angrily, remembering the food poisoning, _Not like they'd be much help from the hospital anyway_. On a normal day, she could have called Booth, but this had not been a normal day, and Booth was the one subject she'd been trying to avoid since he left; it hurt too much to think on it for too long. A chill seeped into her bones and a cold sweat began forming over her eyebrows as the alcohol began attacking her stomach, and she knew she had to get home.

On cue, a waitress walked over to her, voice soft and comforting, "Y'alright, sweetie? You look a little sick." Brennan only nodded and the waitress began loading the doctor's empty glasses onto her tray, "How 'bout I call you a cab, yeah? You got cash for a cab?" Rather than scowl at the infantilizing tone of the woman's voice, Brennan simply nodded and laughed--a thick, meaningless laugh of someone who'd consumed well-over the normal amount of booze--and fumbled around for her pocketbook. "I have plenty for a cab. I'm rich, you know," she nodded again, a rant building along with her nauseousness, "I'm smart, too. That's probably why I'm rich. And I have friends. I know you think I don't, but I do--I have friends. Good ones, too. Good friends and colleagues. And I help people; I give people closure. I know you think that all I do is give bad news, but I give _closure_. You should appreciate that, okay?" She struggled to unzip her wallet, her fingers suddenly stiff and stupid, "You know what?" She brushed some hair out of her face, simultaneously wiping away a tear that she didn't know had fallen, "I'm going to tip you. Nice, big tip, because you're nice. And big," she laughed again, "Which is not meant to sound sexual, because I'm not into women. Though, maybe I should be. The whole...male-female thing, its...crazy." She took a crisp one-hundred dollar bill off of a small stack of cash and handed it to the waitress, who was watching her with a confused face, "Here. For you. I think I'm going to throw up."

The last part came out so unexpectedly that it took the waitress a moment to react. But once she did, she slid her tray onto the counter and put one hand on Brennan's back, the other on her wrist, and helped her off of the barstool and to the bathroom. They squeezed into one of the stalls just in time, and a mess of greenish-blue liquid spilled from Brennan's mouth and into the too-white porcelain. The waitress held back her stray hairs and rubbed her back, whispering soothing words until everything that could come up did, and Brennan was sinking down onto the floor. With some of the alcohol now out of her system and a some of her sense back, she looked up at the kind woman, "Could you call that cab now?" Her voice was rough and raw, and her eyes were beginning to blur with tears that she would be ashamed to let fall. Especially in front of some stranger. The waitress gazed at her for a moment, making sure she was all right to be left alone, and then nodded, leaving. By the time she came back, Brennan had picked herself up off of the floor and washed her face, and was now leaning heavily against the sink. Sure that the mass of marble and pipes was the only thing holding her up, she didn't object when the waitress beckoned her to lean on her shoulder, and they walked slowly outside, stopping only briefly to pick up the doctor's things.

The waitress stayed with her until the cab came, and then helped her into it. Before closing the door, she leaned down and pressed the hundred-dollar bill back into the drunk woman's hand. "Y'ain't thinkin' clear tonight. Couldn't take it, even if I really needed it."

Brennan stared up at her under lazy eyelids, drooping from fatigue, "But you're so nice."

She laughed at this, eyes twinkling, "I'll be just as nice next time you come in, Doc; you let me know if I'm worth the Jimmy Choos then."

"I don't know what that means." This time, the waitress didn't answer. She just smiled that reassuring smile and closed the door, knocking on the roof of the cab twice to let the driver know he could go. Brennan was asleep by the time they pulled up to her apartment.

--

"Scarring on carpals," Brennan said into her tape recorder with a small sigh, head pounding with each small sound, "Indicates position and force of the victim's lacerations. It is my finding," she winced when Erin--one of Jack's trainees--entered, her footfall so heavy that it echoed in the doctor's mind. She sighed again, shaking her head and trying to pick up her train of thought, "My finding that, given the forensic evidence, Elaine Martina was murdered."

"I thought it was a clear suicide," Erin said, his voice unbearably high, "How did you get murder?"

Brennan gestured to the marked bones of the victim's wrists, "Here, and here. There is no way she could slice that hard, that far into herself. At least not on both wrists. It would be like severing your tendo calcaneus and then winning the Massachusetts marathon."

"Boston marathon," Erin corrected, still staring at the bones.

"Boston is in Massachusetts."

"But the marathon is in Boston."

"Which is in Massachusetts."

She pressed her lips into a tight line and asked, "What are the chance of me winning this arguement?"

Brennan couldn't take it anymore. She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to rub away the pain that was pulsing there, "Please stop talking." At the hurt expression she recieved, the doctor backpeddled, "Sorry. I have a horrible headache, and with the whole team gone, I'm just a little stressed."

Erin nodded and tentatively held out a manilla folder, "I finished examining the stones found in the victim's feet. Its gravel," she shrugged, "Nothing special about it. She probably just took one last walk before she--"

"I just told you it wasn't a suicide," Brennan snapped, "So find another explanation for how it got there." She handed the folder back and ushered the young woman out of the room. She took a few deep breaths and let the silence wash over her, the pain in her head diminishing a little...until her mobile began beeping. She groaned and flipped it open, "What?"

"You sound happy," Booth's voice floated through to her ear, and she felt herself going cold again; sick. Where was that waitress when you needed her? She didn't answer for a long time, and Booth spoke again, "Bones?"

Finally, she gulped down the bile that had risen in her throat and tried to make her voice as even as possible, "I'm in the middle of a case right now."

He sounded confused, "We don't have a case."

"No, we don't. But you seem to forget that there are about a thousand special agents in DC, and only only one forensic anthropologist. Did you need something."

Booth paused, then said, "Well, no, not really. I just thought we should--"

"Finish assessing this murder victim? I agree." With that, she snapped her mobile shut and leaned over the table again, taking even deeper breaths, letting herself get thoroughly lightheaded before moving again.

--

"Male. Approximately forty years old, five-foot-eleven, 191 pounds," Brennan examined the sternum, "Three ribs broken by what looks to be," she moved in even closer, "Heavy impact against a flat surface. One rib was pressed inward, puncturing the left lung." She straightened up, resting her bottom lip over the microphone on her recorder, "It is my speculation that he is the victim of a hit-and-run, the breakage occuring when he was slammed onto the hood of the car. This also explaines the dislocation of the right hip and the fractures of tinted glass in the victim's skull." She pressed the stop button and looked up at the nine grad students that were staring back at her, "Any questions?"

One of the men raised his hand, "Um, yeah. How the hell did you do that?" The other eight students murmured in agreement and the man went on, "You looked at him for, like, two seconds and got all of that?"

Brennan didn't answer, she instead asked, "I would like you all to examine the remains and tell me if my findings are correct." They all stepped up, but not a one of them studied the skeleton for more than a minute before shaking their heads.

"Its got to be what you said, Doctor Brennan," one of the women told her.

"You're sure?" They all nodded and Brennan circled back around, gesturing again to the sternum. "If you'd bothered to _really_ look, you'd have noticed the multiple fractures in the ribs, as well as the clavicle and scapula, as well as the stress fractures in the vertebral column." She moved her hands to a metal bowl on the table, picking out the largest shard of glass and holding it up, "If you'd examined the glass, you would see that it is too thin to be from the windshield of a car, and," she pointed to the pelvis, "On the dislocated hip, the leg is twisted around almost completely." She took a step back and crossed her arms, "The victim was pushed out of the third-story window of a business building." Brennan snapped her rubber gloves off of her hands and dropped them onto the table, "Go back to class, and start thinking for yourselves."

She pushed past the students, each one of them staring with a mix of awe and shame, and walked back to her office to call Special Agent Allen to inform him of the new details in this victim's murder. She had just started to reach for her phone when it rang, and she picked it up, "Brennan."

"Hey," it was Booth. The events of the other night were still fresh in her mind, and she gulped.

"Hello, Booth."

"You busy? I was thinking that maybe we could meet for lunch at Wong F--"

She cut him off. She wasn't even ready for a lengthy phone conversation, let alone to actually _see_ him. "I have a meeting with Agent Allen."

"Oh," Booth sounded disappointed, but she couldn't make herself tell him the truth. "Okay, well how about--"

Again, she stopped him, "I really have to go, Booth. I'll talk to you later." She hung the phone up and her forehead immediately came into contact with her desk, arms crossed over the top of her head. She puffed out her cheeks and let out a breath. What was she going to do?

--

**A/N:**

**Okay, I am going to stop myself here and officially dub this a multi-chapter story. I will update as soon as possible, just so long as you keep doin' your part and leaving me wonderful reviews. Much love.  
Oh, and Drunk Brennan is hard to write! I had to think back to On-Meth Brennan. That was fun. Jeez.**


	3. Hit Me, I'm Bleeding

**Chapter Title:** _Hit Me, I'm Bleeding_  
**Disclaimer:** _TJ Thyne has a really great body...just thought I'd put that out there to cushion the disappointment of finding out I don't own Bones._

--

"Ask me how I'm feeling." Brennan jumped when she heard Angela's voice, knocking her head against the inspection light she'd been under.

"Ow, god," she rubbed where the hot bulb that touched her skull and gave her friend an impatient glare, "Welcome back, Ang; how are you feeling?"

The artist dropped down into the seat next to her, faded yellow rings around her eyes and a ghostly paleness to her skin after a week of food poisoning, "Like John Hurt right before the alien crawled out of his stomach."

"I don't know what that means."

Angela looked over her shoulder and called out, "Told you!" Then, as if summoned, Jack and Zack appeared from the other side of the office door, an incredulous expression taking over Zack's face. "No way," he muttered, digging into his pocket to extract a few wrinkled dollar bills, "I thought _everyone_ had seen at least the first Alien movie."

"No, sorry." Brennan suddenly stopped rubbing her wounded head and looked back and forth between the three, then jumped up, as if only just realizing who they were, "Thank god! I think everyone else that works here decided to drop twenty IQ points the day you got sick."

Jack snorted, "That bad?"

Brennan rolled her eyes, "Doctor Harettés started crying everytime I talked to her. She, um," she blushed guiltily, "Requested a transfer."

"Erin?" All amusement was gone from the man's face, "You scared off my assistant? Damn," he cursed quietly, "She was cute, too."

"Aw, honey," Angela rubbed his shoulder soothingly, "Erin is a lesbian. You never would have cashed in on that one anyway." Jack stared at her for a second, trying to figure out if she was kidding, before he shrugged and it was all behind him.

Brennan ran her tongue over her teeth and lifted her eyebrows, "Okay then. Back to work?" After she'd recieved three nods of agreement, she began handing out assignments. She was just finishing her request that Angela put a face to a new museum specimen when her mobile began alerting her to an incoming call. She sighed and held up one finger, then flipped the phone open.

"We have a case!" A rushed voice told her.

The doctor felt her stomach drop at least a foot and a half. She didn't want to see Booth, but she wouldn't be able to deny a case; she had no excuse for that. So she gulped and repeated, "We have a case?"

There was a pause, and then, "Well, no. No, we don't have a case."

Again, she repeated, "We _don't_ have a case."

"No."

"Why would you tell me we have a case when we don't have a case?"

Another pause. "Because...it was the only way to..."

"To what?" Brennan asked shortly, "Inform me that we have no cases?"

"Okay, stop saying the word 'case,'" Booth ordered in that voice that told Brennan he was holding up one hand for her to stop, even though they weren't in the same room, "Its starting to sound a lot like 'moron.'"

She rolled her eyes and caught sight of her team, all three staring at her with interest. "Funny," she said into the reciever, "I meant for it to sound like 'jackass.' I'm busy right now," she began pulling the mobile away from her ear.

"Bones, wait; we really need to ta--" his words were rushed and loud, but Brennan had already snapped the phone shut and was staring back at the three that seemed so curious now. After a few beats, she swallowed, desperate not to allow her torn emotions to become apparant, "Well? What are you waiting for? You came back on your own, so I'm not going to give you any special sick treatment." Without a word, Jack and Zack turned and left, while Angela hung back a little, her eyes never leaving Brennan's face.

Finally, she spoke up, "Something happened." It wasn't a question. Angela very rarely asked questions, and when she did, she almost always already knew the answer. So Brennan said nothing; she just let her continue. "And since you avoided coming to see me this whole week I was sick--which, by the way, was _so_ _sweet _of you--I figure it has something to do with the night of the banquet. Judging by that phone conversation, I figure it has something to do with Booth. And from that look of doubt on your face, I figure," she stopped, her voice softening considerably, "He really did a number on you. Oh, honey," she knelt down in front of Brennan's chair and brushed some hair out of her friend's face, "What happened?"

Brennan opened her mouth to say that it was nothing--that the artist had an overactive imagination--but she knew it was pointless. What Angela knew, she knew without a doubt. So instead, the doctor launched into the story, her voice wobbling no matter how hard she tried to control her emotions, and feeling the words slide over her lips and touch the air for the first time made her feel smaller than she had since she was fifteen years old.

--

"Multiple fractures here, and here," Zack pointed out the cracked ribs on the skeleton, "Suggest he was kicked several times, but that's not what killed him."

"No?"

"No," Jack confirmed with his proud little Mommy-look-what-I-did smile, "He was poisoned."

"Pois--" Brennan stopped to accept the mug of hot coffee that Angela pressed into her hands, a comforting smile on her face. They'd stayed at the office that night, the doctor wanting nothing more than to finish her work and forget her troubles, and the artist wanting nothing more than to be there when her friend finally shirked her pride. "Thanks. Poisoned? By what?"

Jack held up a plastic bag and inside was about two inches of green stem, "Hemlock. Probably slipped into that morning tea of his. No one would ever know." He put the bag down and gestured to the skeleton's sternum, "Its not painful. First, all your muscles go, and that's probably more than a little scary. Then your lungs start to freeze, but by then, your brain is so numb you can't even register it. Its not a quick death, but he probably didn't feel a thing."

Brennan nodded, sighing through her nose, "Okay, um," she pointed to Zack, "Call Agent Sanyes and give him the ID and cause of death so that he can inform the victim's family." Then to Jack she added, "Very good work; take the rest of the day off."

"Really?"

"Of course not. But you can work on your...fungus thing...for the rest of the day," she gestured to the various fungi in airtight containers that littered the man's desk. He gave her a bright, happy smile and went to them, tearing open box after box and examining the contents closely. That left Brennan and Angela. And...

"I'm curious," Brennan froze at the voice in her ear, "How long you thought that would work." She turned slowly, cautiously, until she was facing Booth. He stared back with a nervous/cocky smirk and Brennan struggled to keep her cool, "How long _what_ would work?"

"Avoiding me," he filled in, "I mean, we're partners."

The word suddenly sounded wrong to her; like it meant something more. "I wasn't avoiding you," she countered with what she hoped was a disinterested but sincere voice, "I was busy; people don't stop dying just because Cullen doesn't bump you a case."

"Huh," he feigned ignorance, "And here I thought they did; I am _shocked_."

Brennan forced a tight-lipped grin and began moving around him, "I have to go."

"Bones, please," but she was already passing him, and he turned with her, "Would you wait?" She was about five feet from him now, and walking fast, so he called out, "Bones, I was drunk!" She froze.

Angela picked up the ulna from the examining table and hit Booth on the shoulder with it--a good, hard tap--and whispered, "Nnno! Bad dog; very bad dog."

Before Booth had a chance to inquire, Brennan had turned and stomped back to him, so close that she was practically breathing her words into his mouth. She spoke slowly, deliberately, in a quiet voice that gave away more emotion than if she had been sobbing, "I love," she started, teeth gritted, "That you think _that_ was the part that hurt me. But thanks for letting me know how you feel." And then she was gone, and a little piece inside of her felt this was fitting; now he got to feel what it was like to see her walk away. But the rest of her was screaming for him, wanting it all to be more than a drunken mistake. Tipping a waitress a hundred dollars and then throwing up in the bathroom of a restaraunt was a drunken mistake; a kiss should have been more than that.

Booth didn't move for a long time, and when he did it was to look at Angela, who was staring back at him with angry eyes. They held this gaze for a moment before she said simply and surely, "You're dumb," and left him there to absorb it all.

--

**A/N:**

**Good golly, y'all! Lookit what I did! I wrote an entire chapter with my eyes closed... Seriously, I'm falling asleep over here, so if this chapter seems kind of spacey at times, let me know and I'll try to edit. I just figured you're all so awesome and deserve an update, but I just got around to it--0131.  
Off to bed now. Please R&R, or else I will have no reason to go on writing. -sob-**


	4. You're All Out, and I'm Your Man

**Title:** _A Better, Happier You_  
**Chapter Title:** _You're All Out, and I'm Your Man_  
**Rating:** _PG13 - PG16_  
**Summary:** _Yeah, okay, we all know the story...Booth made a boo-boo, Brennan made one back. Here is the resolve!_  
**Tag & Spoilers: **_S01E05, "A Boy In A Bush"_  
**Inspiration:** _"Giant," by Matthew Good Band_  
**Disclaimer:** _Own not I the wond'rous world of Bones. That's Kathy Reichs. I do, however, own a new shipment of tempeh and veggie-bacon. Let's see you do _that_, Miss Fancy-pants-forensic-anthropologist-turned-novelist-turned-television-producer!_ _HA! You can't, can you?!_

--

Two days later, with no further word or appearance from Booth, Angela found Brennan where she herself had been found just over a week before; sitting on that same metal bench in that same lonely hallway of the Jeffersonian medical lab. The artist walked slowly, cautiously, and eyed her friend, knowing she knew she wasn't alone, but not acknowledging it. Finally, Angela said quietly, "Are you going to request a new partner?"

Brennan scoffed, "Ang, if I was going to do that, I would just request to be left out of field work all together."

A beat of silence, and then, "That wasn't the definite 'no' that I was hoping for."

The doctor tilted her head down to study her shoes, then licked her lips before answering in a small voice, "I'm not used to doubting myself, Ang; I'm not used to not knowing things. He..." she trailed off, throat contracting at just the nondifinitive pronoun, "He makes me doubt myself."

Angela laughed, quick and unexpected, making her friend look up, "Is that so bad?"

"How could it _not_ be?" Brennan asked incredulously.

"Sweetie," the artist sighed and took her friend's hand, "Listen to me: you're bossy, overconfident, and too smart for your own good." She shook her head when Brennan started to protest and went on, "But--_but­_--its because you have a system for everything; you're used to everything being a certain way. Your work. Your books. Your relationships," she shrugged, "Most everything in your life has been a constant, and you've always known what to expect." Angela leaned forward a little so that she and her friend were eye-for-eye, "But Booth is different. He challenges you, he catches you off-guard, he defies you. He wears his emotions on the outside and he lets things be personal, and that includes his relationship with you. He makes you doubt yourself because," she sighed and shook her head, "Because you can't wrap your mind around why a man like that should fit so well with a woman like you."

Brennan was quiet for a long time, letting the words seep into her mind, examining them closely, and then she said, "Did you just insult me?"

Again, Angela laughed, "I'm just saying that Booth feels a lot, and he never does anything without a reason. You're the analytical one; aren't you just _dying _to know what that reason is?"

"He was drunk."

The artist shook her head, "Drunk is not a reason. Its not even an excuse. I've been _very_ drunk, a _lot_ of times, and I never kissed anyone I didn't want to."

One of Brennan's eyebrows shot up, "Jack?" She asked, recalling the events of a New Year's party the year before, when a dateless and drunken Angela tugged a certain entomologist out onto a balcony as the ball dropped and kissed him furiously. Since then, the two had avoided each other at all holiday functions.

Angela patted her hand and looked away, "That is a conversation for another time. For now, I think you should really consider talking to Booth."

There was another long stretch of silence as Brennan debated whether or not to say what she was feeling. Then she decided that, if she were to confront Booth, this would be good practice in saying what she really meant, "He hurt me, Ang. And he doesn't even know how."

The artist's face crumpled in sympathy and she leaned her head on her friend's shoulder in a sort of awkwardly angled hug, "I know, sweetie; I know."

--

"Hello, Doctor Brennan!"

"Hello, Annie," the doctor greeted the FBI receptionist with a friendly smile, "Is Booth in his office?"

Annie nodded, shuffling through some papers to get to her phone, "Would you like me to call him for you?"

Brennan shook her head quickly, "Uh, no." It had taken the rest of the morning and all of the afternoon for her to work up the courage to even get to the FBI building. Another forty-five minutes to convince herself to go inside. Ten more just to get to the third floor. The only comfort she had in this whole thing was that she would have the upper hand. She could walk in without an appointment, tell him everything she wanted to tell, and then let him explain his piece. Or not. It all depended on how she felt afterward. And now, the only things stopping this plan from being complete were a tightly twisted stomach and an overly-enthusiastic secretary. "I'm just going to pop in."

"Ooh," Annie smiled deviously, as if it were some sort of scandal, "Like a _surprise_?" The way she said the word, it sounded as though she should have said "tryst" or "bootycall."

Instead of denying it, Brennan just shrugged, "Hold his calls until I leave."

At this, the receptionist burst into a fit of manic giggles, like this were the most deliciously obscene thing she'd ever been a part of. "Of course, Doctor Brennan," she said between dainty laughs, "Enjoy yourself." The doctor simply nodded and started down the hall to Booth's office; a path so clear that she didn't even have to thin about it. How many times had she traced these halls to get to him? Not all of them had been for business--some were for dinner, some for talks, and some just because neither of them wanted to be alone. Before the kiss, she'd never thought anything of it, but now she was examining every way he made her comfortable, and every way she so desired to be comfortable around him again.

When she got to his office, she stopped. One glance through the window told her he was alone, leaning over a pile of paperwork, one hand buried in his hair and holding up his head, the other holding a pen and moving furiously over an old file. He looked horrible, and Brennan found herself wondering when the last time was that he'd slept. His white dress shirt was untucked, the top two buttons undone, jacket and tie nowhere to be seen, clothes wrinkled and worn. His hair was a mess and he had deep bags under his eyes. There was a soft music floating through--a heavy beat with gentle vocals that she couldn't place, but recognized instantly as what Angela called "mellow music." The doctor felt herself soften; could she do this? Could she scold him--demand things from him--when he looked so utterly and completely beaten?

But she had to.

She pushed the door open and stood in the doorway, staring her partner down. He looked up with annoyance, but his face changed when he realized it was her. It went from aggrivated to stunned to confused to guilty to worried to a little angry, right back to stunned again. He opened his mouth, but couldn't seem to form any words. That was exactly what Brennan needed from him now--silence--and she started in, "I'm not happy with this." It was a simple start, but once she'd said it, the rest just rattled off, "I'm not happy that I've had to avoid you. I'm not happy that we both seem to be on the bad end of this whole situation. I'm sorry that I wasn't willing to talk about it at first, but I was upset and you seemed to be so passive about it, like it was nothing, that it just made me angry and irritated and scared." Booth once again opened his mouth, but Brennan was already launching into her second wave, "You _kissed_ me, Booth. You kissed me, and then you walked away. And...and I don't care how drunk you were," she repeated Angela's line from that morning, "Drunk is never a reason, or an excuse."

"I know," it was almost a whisper, "I'm sorry."

The doctor shook her head, aggrivated and desperate, "I don't want you to be sorry; I want you to explain."

He sighed and pushed his papers aside, running a hand through his hair and looking away briefly, "That case," his eyes flicked back to her, "You changed when we were working on that case. You actually connected with that little boy. I felt like..." he pressed his lips together in thought, "I felt like I was actually seeing a real part of you. So when you came to Wong Foo's and I'd been drinking, it all seemed..." he trailed off again, unable to think of how to describe it. At least, not in a way that wouldn't permanently mortify him. He shrugged, "So I did it."

Silence. Silence as Brennan stared at him, then she took a few steps forward and lowered herself into the seat on the opposite side of his desk. "No," she said slowly, quietly, "I meant, why did you walk away?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

Booth stared at her before answering slowly, still a little shocked that _this_ was the part she was most concerned about, "I have a girlfriend, Bones. I have a career that depends on me being able to keep a clear head."

She swallowed, "Oh." Why hadn't she thought of that? She could figure out anything, but the inner-workings of this man's mind were somehow a mystery. Tessa. The FBI. There were probably at least a hundred other reasons to ward him away from kissing her again. And that hurt even more than watching him walk away. "Plus," he was saying now, "I didn't want to put you in that position."

Honesty. She kept having to say it over and over in her head, _Tell the complete truth_. "I don't know how drunk you were, Booth--maybe you don't remember," her voice was rough, dry, "But I _did_ kiss you back." His soft eyes went wide and his jaw dropped slightly. Brennan smirked sadly and stood, walking around the desk to perch on the edge, where she could stare down at him. She covered one of his hands with her own and told him, "I understand about Tessa. And about your job. And I don't want you to feel guilty about this anymore, okay?" He couldn't speak; he could only nodded in a slow, lazy way. She stared at him for another couple of beats before standing fully, "Well, I'm glad we settled this," she began to turn, "Now we can get back to our--"

"Wait," a firm voice told her. When she turned back around, Booth was standing, the few inches he had on her now made him seem like a giant, towering high above. He took the step that divided them and now they were so close that their chests were almost touching. "In the future," he told her evenly, "We need to be able to talk about these things right away."

Just when she was starting to feel okay again, all of the nerves in her body sparked, coming to life and tingling at the proximity. Her throat was like sandpaper, "These things?"

"These things," he repeated surely, then leaned down to press his lips against hers. As much as she tried to fight it, Brennan found herself looping her arms around his neck and using the leverage to pull herself closer to him, molding her lips against his frantically. Then he was pulling away, and her chest felt afire. Not again.

Shaky, like a child, she asked, "What are you doing?"

He smirked at her, meeting her eyes, "I wanted you to see that I wasn't walking away."

"And Tessa?"

"Tessa and I broke up four days ago."

"And the job?"

"My mind will be clearer if I don't have to imagine what this is like."

"Looks like you've covered all your laces."

He smiled and shook his head, "Bases, Bones," he started leaning in again, "Bases."

--

**A/N:**

**The last chapter of my very first Bones fanfiction. Did I totally peter out? It feels like I petered out. I suck. Oh well; my next one will be better; I promise! Just keep readin' and leavin' them lovely reviews.**

**Oh, and check out my featured ficcer for the month of June...**_**CSI-4077**_**. Best Bones fluff stories I've read since I got into the show!**


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